


capriccio brillante

by traveller



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-08-01
Updated: 2003-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 21:32:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traveller/pseuds/traveller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Then they laugh uproariously and pound each other on the back. Everyone else is staring, some more openly than others. Finally someone whispers, "Lord of the Rings," as if that explains everything. In a way, it does.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	capriccio brillante

**(1)**

It starts with,

"God, you're looking well!"

and a too-tight, too-long hug while everyone else is still shaking hands, circling, sniffing, sorting each other out.

There is a second hug a moment later, not a greeting this time but simply for contact. Arms flung 'round each other just because. Because it is Them.

They are catching up, reminiscing; they finish each other's sentences, each other's thoughts. They speak in the secret shorthand of long acquaintance:

"Man, you remember that time-"

"-shit, yeah, with the-"

"-and then he took the-"

"-and we were in the-"

(and then in unison)

"NO MORE SINGING!"

Then they laugh uproariously and pound each other on the back. Everyone else is staring, some more openly than others. Finally someone whispers, "Lord of the Rings," as if that explains everything. In a way, it does.

"Beachtime," Orli is saying, bumping his shoulder into Sean's, who bumps him back. "We have got to get with these Mediterranean beaches." He bounces on his toes, making wave motions with his hands. "You can't really surf the Caribbean, man, it's complete shite. But Billy and I did Malibu a couple of times this winter, spring, whenever the last time was I was in L.A."

Sean shrugs, smiles. "You know I hate the bloody effing beach," he says mildly. His smile flickers for a moment when he adds, "L.A., huh? Hey, how's the girlfriend?"

"Who?" Orli answers absently. His mouth is still filled with the remembered taste of saltwater.

 

 **(2)**

He wakes with a feeling of unaccountable melancholy, of loss. He'd known a Belgian girl at school who'd spoken of _tristesse de matins_ , he always liked the feel of the words in his mouth, even though his French was crap, and he hadn't woken up sad in a number of years, not since he was about fifteen and was still struggling with who he was and what it all meant. He's come to a place now where he's figured out that nothing in life is nearly as complex as people want to make it, that a lot of what is valued is really meaningless. He has acquired a certain sense of perspective, viz, that he is one lucky lucky bastard, and if there are tradeoffs to be made, so be it.

Say your lines, collect your cheque, and go home.

He'd fallen asleep with the radio on, the late-night news programme he'd been listening to has turned into an early-morning Classical show. He tentatively identifies the piece as Mendelssohn, the name escapes him although he's sure he's heard it before. Perhaps as a child. He can't be certain.

The Mediterranean sun is already starting to burn off the haze; he rolls onto his side, turns his face toward the window, toward the golden early morning glow. It's just warm enough, comfortable, not like the burning heat of the set. It's not as bad as Morocco, desert sun, but not as mellow as the Caribbean, where the breeze was honey sweet and the sun turned his skin the deep gold of toffee.

It's good to be here, yes, but suddenly he's longing for something that he didn't know was lost. He plumps his pillow and watches the sun track across the water.

He misses his little cottage in Wellington. He misses the orange throw rug he had on the kitchen floor, like a big fat warm sun in the middle of the room; he misses the floorboards that would creak beneath your feet, or your back, but were covered with a thick white coat of paint so you never got splinters.

This is a beautiful little flat, no mistake, but it's furnished by the rental agency - nothing out of place. If you go out and leave something on the floor, when you come back the maid's picked it up. He has become uncharacteristically sloppy, just so that it looks like someone lives here. Except he doesn't live here, it's just another temporary solution.

He has come to conclude that life is just a series of temporary solutions. Viggo always liked the word _ephemerality_ , would mutter it to himself as he took pictures of dead things washed up on the beach. He has come to conclude that a nice word, no matter how good it sounds rolling off your tongue, can't cover up the fact that something's dead.

 

 **(3)**

It starts with,

"Drink, mate?"

and a wink and a nod and push.

They are far from anti-social, they go to the clubs in Valletta and to dinner in Gudja and make an effort to be part of the cast. The others still stare, sometimes, when they've said or done something particularly Them, but everyone does their best to get on.

Eventually, though, they are orbiting only each other. Almost like before, only then there were three (sun, moon, earth; the moon has since spun away, and the tides are always low). Starts with a drink and a wink and a question one night, after the pubs have been crawled and they are wobbling just inside the doorway of Orli's flat.

"Do you think we'll ever-"

"-again? But what about-"

"-doesn't matter. I want-"

(and then in unison)

"Okay. Yes."

Then they are falling together, into each other, mouths remembering what tongues have already recalled, but there are no more words except the absolutely essential. Orli talks too much when he's nervous, it is telling that he now says nothing further than "Bedroom - this way."

Sean tangles his fingers in Orli's hair and supposes that the kid just might've grown up. This time will be different. It has to be. They are Them, after all.

 

 **(4)**

He wakes with a feeling of unaccountable joy, with something bright and melodic dancing low in his belly. The same smile is on his lips upon waking as was when he fell asleep.

He remembers this feeling from childhood: felt on the morning of his birthday, on the first day of school holidays, on the day each summer that they left for the shore. Something good was happening, something you didn't have to pay for or plan or even work toward, it just was and it was a given.

He laughs out loud because he can, because he hears music inside his head and feels it in his blood. The sun is shining bright and dazzling on the water, making a fat pool of orange light on the pale carpet; they have slept late, but that's all right. He plumps his pillow and shifts his body back against Sean's.

Sean's beard feels strange against the back of his neck but he's already getting used to it. Sean's hands have more calluses than he remembers, but they feel good on his skin (which is a bit thicker than it used to be). Then was then. It was all different; different is not necessarily bad, then was neither better nor worse.

It doesn't mean he's done anything wrong, it never did, the home feeling doesn't have anything to do with a where, but rather a who, and he's come to the point in his life where that realization is crucial. Home, heart, et cetera. He's not going to linger on clichés just now, though, because:

Sean is shifting, pushing, rubbing; Orli does the same in reverse. He stifles a giggle when Sean buries his face in Orli's hair, when Sean's plump sigh tickles his ear. He had not forgotten this, no, drifting from sleep to waking to fucking. Rolling over, spreading his legs, wordless. Sean doesn't talk either, never did, not because there is nothing to say but rather because sometimes music is better without words, when all you have to do is _feel_ it.

Feel Sean's weight, and the hot rough push of the cock inside him. Feel the way Sean's hands tremble on Orli's hips, the way the sun flickers in front of his eyes. Feel wanted and present. Feel alive.


End file.
